


the ballet of the masses

by fallenflowercrowns



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Developing Relationship, English Premier League, I haven't named their team, It's probably a London team tho, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, So you can decide who they play for yourselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 09:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17057633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenflowercrowns/pseuds/fallenflowercrowns
Summary: Napoleon Solo is the captain of a renowned London football team (soccer, as they call it in his homeland). So far, everything in his career has gone according to plan, but then his new manager decides to buy Illya Kuryakin – hot-headed, scowling, and incredibly beautiful; enough to turn Napoleon Solo's life upside down.





	the ballet of the masses

**Author's Note:**

> So. I've had this sitting in my drive since .... February this year, when I watched TMFU three times in a row and got quite obsessed with it for a short while of a couple weeks.
> 
> Now, back then I had the sudden urge to try my hand at a different pairing, different characters. A terrible idea, probably – especially since I finished this fic today, almost ten months later, writing mostly on memory of how they'd been portrayed in all the fics I read. So already, I apologize if my characterization is all over the place.
> 
> As it goes, I have no idea how to write spy stories. Not a single one – but suddenly, I thought these two would do well in a Football AU. And well, if there's something I can write, then it's football fanfiction. Or rather, Football RPF. And of course I didn't need to finish this, but the beginning was just too promising to rot in my WIP folder forever.
> 
> Unbeta'd. I've skimmed the whole thing real quickly, but there's a fair chance there are quite a few mistakes. I'll likely go back to edit those out over the next few days.

It all starts with Alexander Waverly.

Waverly, their new head coach after their last gaffer got himself sacked after a piss-poor performance in trying to keep them somewhere in the top third of the table. (Where they rightfully belong, if anyone bothered to ask Napoleon.)

Waverly, more English than their entire defense (which is hard, considering three of them are London natives and the remaining two from Bristol and Leeds), completely blasé about everything and apparently batshit crazy.

“You want to buy _who_?” Napoleon is slightly bothered by how exasperated he sounds; normally, he's perfected the art of putting up a charming and entirely uncaring front.

To be fair, this is not exactly a normal situation.

Waverly sighs, taking another sip of his tea while his assistant doesn't even bother to hide her grin. She's incredibly pretty, albeit not the type Napoleon usually goes for.

“His name is Illya Kuryakin, and for god's sake, sit down, Solo.”

Napoleon hasn't even noticed that he's gotten up from his seat.

Already, he doesn't like this Russian fella, no matter who he might be.

“And why exactly do you think we need a new centre back? As far as I know, James and Enno are both in good shape!”

“Oh really? According to my intel, James Madsen has been having issues with his right ankle for almost four months now and Edinson on the other hand is 33; he can't be guaranteed to play for much longer. With the Champions League fixtures coming up, we can't afford any risks like that.” Waverly sniffs. “Anyway, Solo, I didn't ask you to come to my office for an opinion, rather to tell you that as captain, I expect you to help him integrate into the team.”

Napoleon scowls. He's almost ready to give him a piece of his mind, but by the way Waverly's eyebrow is twitching, he can tell that this would probably not be the best idea if he didn't want to risk his starting position and maybe even his armband.

With a curt nod and one of his carefully rehearsed smiles, he turns around, leaving Waverly's office before he has any chance to dismiss him.

He doesn't even notice that the assistant has followed him until he's about to turn the next corner. She's dressed in a sharp jumpsuit that might cost more than Napoleon's car, clutching a clipboard.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “So you're my appointed babysitter?”

Her smile is dry. She's a tiny thing, but there's something about how she holds her shoulders that indicates that there might be more to her than a pretty face.

“Think of it as more of a handler. Alexander doesn't like getting talked back to.”

Napoleon snorts. “Doesn't he? Well, then he might consider that pretending to know a team he has been responsible for no more than 48 hours better than someone who has been with them for ten years is probably not the best way to start.”

She tilts her head, her expression infuriatingly unreadable, then lets out a surprising chuckle.

“Oh, this is going to be a laugh.”

 

Illya Nickovitch Kuryakin, as their new Russian teammate's full name goes, is a delight. Which of course is to say, he's incredibly easy to wind up and glares at anyone who dares to tackle him or even stands in his way at all.

Napoleon would probably find it amusing, if Kuryakin weren't half a foot taller and several times stronger than him - something he had to, begrudgingly, admit after Kuryakin felled Vollenweider with such an ease that made Napoleon flinch. (His reaction time wasn't half bad either.)

At a height of 6ft.5, the Russian towers over the rest of their team - even Bjarni, their Icelandic goalkeeper, is a few inches shorter than him. The first time Napoleon hears him speak he notices that he has a deep voice to go with it (though he'd absolutely deny that his strongly accented English sends a shiver down his spine.)

Combined with those intense steel blue eyes, Napoleon must admit that Kuryakin strikes a rather impressing figure.

Anyway, he's surprised he never heard of this Russian bulldozer before. When he asks Gaby (The assistant. They're getting along quite well, even if Napoleon is always mildly impressed and low-key terrified of her) she tells him that he's got potential.

Which, in football terms of course, means that up until now, he'd failed to make enough of a name for himself to get noticed by any bigger teams. Napoleon doesn't tell her that at 26, Illya's a bit old to only got 'potential'.

A quick search of his Wikipedia page confirms that while he'd played for a Russian first league team - that seemed to always float around in the middle of the table - for two years prior to his transfer, there are no notable wins underneath his belt yet.

It is curious, how he ended up here of all places, Napoleon thinks. And whereas he initially pegs all of Kuryakin's advantages as being a direct cause of his inhumane strength and speed, a week of training alongside the Russian puts him right.

He's incredibly stealthy, able to approach his opponents so cautiously they almost never notice him until he's snatched the ball from their feet, as well as absolutely deadly when it comes to direct duels.

As much as it pains Napoleon to admit it, he's somewhat impressed.

Of course, there is also the matter of introducing him to the team, which is turning out to be quite hard.

First of all, Napoleon and Illya haven't gotten off to the best start. This of course might have something to do that during the warm-up for their first joint training session (initially the first time they met at all) Napoleon ran past by the Russian, tossing a “Try to keep up; this isn't somewhere in backwards Siberia, after all!” over his shoulder. Kuryakin looked downright furious, and when Napoleon tried to approach him later in the locker room, he seemed ready to flip a table.

By now, he seems to have accepted his faith, even if most of the time he still looks like to hold himself back from snarling at Napoleon. He's slightly more civil with their teammates, but the only person he somewhat opens up around is Gaby. Around her, he seems to relax a bit. One time, Napoleon finds them speaking German by the side of the pitch.

There's an an honest to god smile on Kuryakin's lips. It's terrifying how innocent and beautiful he looks with it.

Napoleon turns around before they can notice him staring.

Somehow, from that moment on, Napoleon tries harder. He still teases Illya mercilessly - it makes it more exciting that with his own dry sarcastic sense of humour, he knows how to return the sentiment - but he also tries to drag him to every outing with the lads, only to discover that he doesn't drink.

When he tries to start a conversation by talking about possible similar interests, he finds out that Illya's favourite hobby is chess and that he doesn't really understand the point of art.

Napoleon wants to bang his head against the table.

Still, in their own way, they do grow closer. Their partnership is sealed when they discover how efficient they are on the pitch.

During the first game in which Illya makes it into the starting eleven, he assists a goal Napoleon makes just at the start of the second half.

It happens again three times over the next two training sessions. Even Waverly raises an impressed eyebrow at them.

“So you're getting along I see.” He looks quite smug.

Napoleon pride doesn't allow him to acknowledge it, so instead he flinches when he hears an outcry from behind his back.

One of their younglings lies on the grass, clutching his leg. Illya stands next to him. He doesn't look particularly apologetic, even if he helps the boy up again.

“He was in my way,” he shrugs when Waverly shoots him an exasperated glance.

It teases an incredulous laugh out of Napoleon. “Try not to malm our own players next time, Peril.”

(It's hardly a surprise that the nickname sticks.)

 

They play their first away game since Illya’s arrival, and when they’re all gathered in the hotel lobby, still hyped about the win, Napoleon is surprised when Illya joins them.

“Peril!” he calls, motioning at the empty seat next to him. The couch is a bit too small for two men of their size and Napoleon raises an eyebrow when Illya flinches a bit when their thighs first brush against each other. He doesn’t skirt away though, which Napoleon takes as a sign that the Red Peril is warming up to him.

Illya is as taciturn as always though, staring at the table in coffee table in front of him, rubbing his wrist where an old watch sits, so Napoleon busies himself performing a card trick to some of his teammates.

They all know he has talented fingers, but they’re still amazed every time. Illya only scowls. At least until Gaby appears, looking impeccably dressed even in her pyjamas. Madsen vacates his seat for her, and she lounges in the plush navy armchair like she’s the queen and they’re all her servants.

She looks stunning, and it’s all it takes to shove one of the youngsters out of the way to get closer to her. It’s not like Napoleon is in love with her, but she’s an attractive woman and he’s an attractive man, so it’s almost compulsory. Most of the team knows about his playboy ways, so they mind their own business as he tries to truly sweet-talk her for the first time, baffled by how each of his quips and tricks slide off her like drops of water as she’s severly unimpressed by his advances.

It’s only after twenty minutes or so that Illya turns to them and says, “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Cowboy.”

And only then does Gaby’s lips twist into something resembling a smile, and not for the first time, Napoleon wonders why she seems to like the Russian ice block than to him.

That wonder continues to grow over the next few weeks. And suddenly, his initial relief that Illya manages to open up around Gaby turns into something that can only be likened to something like glistening hot jealousy. And the worst thing is, when Gabi flicks back her hair and Peril shoots her a soft smile in return, he couldn’t even tell you who he’s more jealous of.

It’s not long until the media gets wind of their liking for each other, and soon they start to spread rumors about their relationship status. With Napoleon and his image as a womanizer, no one would even bat an eyelid if he was as close to Gaby as Illya is, but for Peril, who has never been linked to any girl at all, this seems to be a first. Napoleon is surprised when he doesn’t like it, claims they must all have gone crazy, his accent thicker than usual as he throws the paper shoved under his nose to the side with a huff, where it soaks up the water on the damp floor of the dressing room. Gaby, a few hours later, only laughs when she’s presented with the story.

Still, Waverly thinks it’s not the worst idea to keep them guessing, just so that they can gain some traction, to keep their names in people’s minds – and people like nothing more than a love story.

Gaby grins as she goes along with it, even when Illya scowls every time she links her arm with his as soon as they’re spotted by the cameras, but somehow, inexplicably, Napoleon feels grateful for knowing that it’s nothing more than a game to her and that it hopefully won’t turn into more.

He decides he’d rather not ponder that feeling any further.

 

They’ve won seven consecutive games after Illya’s arrival – though Napoleon supposes it has something to do with the changes Waverly made in their midfield as well – so by the time the Champions League arrives, they have gotten cocky. Too cocky, as it seems.

It’s the round of sixteen and they’re playing Bayern Munich, another team that is slightly too used to winning. They’re at home, and it only makes the defeat taste more bitter on Napoleon’s tongue. He’d like to blame it on Peril, but fact is that he’d rather walk over to where he’s giving a reluctant interview and hug the shit out of him.

Gaby seems almost amused when she tuts at them as they shuffle off the pitch with their heads hung low, and Napoleon even catches her waving at someone on the other team. He’s even more surprised when someone – the German team’s veritable brick wall of a goalkeeper, who just happens to be their captain as well, waves back with a big grin.

Upon noticing his baffled look, Gaby only shrugs. “I used to play for their women’s team, back before my injury, didn’t you know? He’s a friend.”

Napoleon almost feels a bit guilty for not even knowing that she played herself at all. For a second, he wonders if she means a friend or a _friend_ , but then gets distracted when Peril pokes his side.

“Come on, Cowboy, let’s drown our sorrows.”

 

Coaches usually don’t take kindly to their players drinking before or after an important game, especially not in a busy week like this one, but they of course, they haven’t asked Waverly for permission.

Napoleon leads them straight to their favourite dive, a hole-in-the-wall place whose owners knows all of them well, even the ones that don’t drink at all, and leads them straight to a more private back room. The music is loud, and the other more-or-less well known patrons pay them just as much attention as they give them; basically zero.

The beer taste stale, and somehow the defiant act has lost his appeal over the years, but it’s Illya’s hand on his shoulder that makes him pause, his smile as he turns his head to him that makes some butterflies in his stomach flutter that Napoleon long thought dead.

He can’t help but smile back, and not for the first time he wonders how he’s let this happen, or why it was Illya who managed to unscrew something in him, to open a door that he barricaded a long time ago.

It’s the first time that he admits to himself that he’s fallen in love, though, the first time he curses himself for not managing to suppress these feelings any longer, but how could he, when Illya’s smile grows softer even than all the ones he’s addressed at Gaby over the last few months. When Illya looks at him like _that_ , like he might not be the only one with buried attraction burning low in his stomach.

He’s that close to leaning in for a kiss, uncaring about their teammates surrounding him. He’s not thinking clearly, so he violently startles when someone taps his shoulder.

Gaby quirks her eyebrow at him as her blond German friend (their opponent, the _enemy_ ) hovers over her shoulder. They’re not alone, so Napoleon’s suspicion that they might be a thing grows that little bit smaller. Instead, another of Bayern’s players stands next to his captain; lanky, with a too-wide grin and somewhat unsettling eyes.

“Shouldn’t you guys be back at the hotel?” Her tone is playful, but Napoleon can her the cold behind it, the warning as clear as an icy winter morning. For a long time he couldn’t understand how someone like her could be in charge the bunch of rowdy boys that they are, but now they all get up, one by one, with their heads hung low, and queue up to pay and leave.

Napoleon and Illya stay back as Gaby’s old friends ogle the pub with obvious interested – the walls plastered in photographs, stickers, newspaper articles and coasters. The lanky beanpole whistles.

“Nice place!” he says appreciatively, and Gaby chuckles and explains that Bavarians do like their beer. Their tall friend says nothing, only musters Illya with a cold gaze.

“ _Is this the one you’re dating, Gaby?_ ” he asks, trying to be subtle by using their native language, probably unknowing that both Napoleon and Illya speak enough German to understand him.

It is the worry of a brotherly friend, though, so it’s almost a bit endearing.

Gaby laughs and slaps his arm. “Don’t worry, big guy, Illya’s harmless. Also, we’re not dating. It’s just the media making stuff up, as usual. Shouldn’t you of all people be perfectly aware of that?”

Blondie huffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. When he’s pouting he almost looks like a cherub, Napoleon catches himself thinking, and he grins when Illya gets up and towers over him by a good few centimeters, shooting him a glare. And Napoleon has to give Blondie some credit, at least – he doesn’t back down, and it’s Illya who has to pull his eyes away with a barely-there smile, gesturing at the now-empty chairs in front of them.

In the end, they end up having just one more beer, just the five of them, and it’s a nice time.

They’re the last ones to leave the pub, Gaby a few steps ahead, walking with her German friends. She’s in a good mood, a bit tipsy, laughing a lot more than she probably should the night after a defeat. The lanky one has his arm slung around the goalkeeper’s waist and never ceases talking.

Napoleon has tried to remember their first names but in the end it’s not like it matters much. He’s never been good about remembering things about people not valuable to his interest.

Illya says nothing, his hands stuffed in his pocket, that ridiculous hat he always wears pulled low, hiding his face in shadows.

“You okay, Peril?” Napoleon asks. He hates how genuinely concerned he sounds. Illya huffs.

“I’m fine, Cowboy, you don’t worry.”

The tension between them that was already there back in the bar is still tangible, but it feels different, more strained. Illya’s lips are tight and Napoleon would do anything to bring that smile back on his lips, but instead, they just walk ahead on the frozen pavement, observing the three figures ahead of them, illuminated by warm yellow light.

 

After that night, things are weird. Napoleon isn’t even sure if what he thought was an almost-kiss even existed or if it was just wishful thinking.

Illya is more taciturn than usual and one day even snaps when the media ask him about Gaby, saying that everything that’s between them is only what they make it up to be. No one asks him about his relationships after that, not even Napoleon, who foolishly hopes Illya is so prickly about the topics because his feelings might be returned after all.

They return to their weird dance of kinda-avoiding-each-other-but not, Napoleon sneaking glances at Illya’s hunking figure whenever he can, a cursed blush fighting its way onto his cheeks whenever he accidentally catches Peril’s eyes. At least he still has his facial expressions under control, so he hopes no one notices the slip up.

As usual, it’s Gaby who drives a sledgehammer right through the awkward situation.

One evening, as Napoleon is lounging alone in the cafeteria of their training facilities, nursing a sad glass of coke – sad because of the lack of alcoholic additives to the soda – she plops herself down right in front of him, tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the wooden table. Napoleon winces at the sound, and sighs when Gaby fixes him with a half-glare, half-frown.

“What is it, Ms. Teller? Better make it quick, I’m really not in the mood for a dressing-down.”

She lifts one perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“You should stop moping, Mr. Solo. It’s not good on the team climate, this mutually-ignoring each-other-while-pining-for-each-other thing you and Illya have going on.”

Napoleon almost gapes at her. Instead, he tilts his head. “How–”

“How did I figure that out? Dear, one of my best friends is as gay as a rainbow – and no, I am not talking about Illya, even if I suspect it might just apply to him as well – and I’ve seen him and his boyfriend do this dance again and again back when they first started liking each other.”

Napoleon frowns. “Who?”

A smile tugs at her lips. They’re painted a deep red that day, as dark as wilting roses. “You’ve met him. And his boyfriend, actually.”

Oh. Her German friends then. Quickly, Napoleon replays every interaction he’s seen them make over the course of that one evening they spent at the pub together, and in retrospect, there were indeed some gentle glances and a brush of hands here and there. Napoleon desperately wishes he wasn’t as obvious in showing his affections for Illya.

Thankfully, Gaby relieves him of that worry. “You two were quite a bit more subtle about it, even if Illya does like to stare at you quite a bit whenever you aren’t paying attention. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed, actually, I was sure his eyes could burn holes into the back of your head – lovingly, of course. But you?”

She grins. “You are a playboy, Napoleon Solo. I know that you tried to coax me too,” she holds up her palm as he wants to retort, “don’t even try to deny it, I know you were at least semi-serious in your advances. But Illya. You like him, don’t you?”

Napoleon doesn’t even try to deny it. He’s awfully tempted to bury his face in his hands.

“You like him too much, and you are afraid, Napoleon Solo. You’re afraid that he might like you back – you are afraid of commitment. You’re afraid that you want this to be more than a casual fling with a teammate; and I know you’ve had those before.”

He doesn’t even want to know how she found out about that; he’d always tried to be as careful as possible, as much as he could. But despite all her analytic skills, Gaby wrong about one thing.

“I’m not afraid of commitment. But dammit Gaby, I don’t know. I don’t know if he actually likes me back. I am afraid he looks at me the same way he looks at me – at the sibling he loves with fond exasperation. And it kills me. It kills me, Gaby.”

Gaby’s grin morphs into a soft smile.

“Well, I don’t think you’ll have to let it kill you any longer.”

When Napoleon lifts his head, Illya stands next to her, his face unreadable, and Napoleon’s heart drops into his pants. That damn Red Peril and his ability to move without making a single.

But then, after Gaby flashes them a last, self-satisfied smirk, Illya’s expression opens, and suddenly, it’s like the sun is shining down on them.

 

Two months later and they’re laying, Illya’s face barely a few inches from Napoleon’s. His stubble is rougher than usual, his eyes softer. He’s as naked as the day he was born, and him and Napoleon are covered by the same sheets, their legs tangled together.

Napoleon strokes over his cheeks and admires him. He’s so beautiful, but knows that Illya doesn’t really appreciate him saying it, even if he always lowers his eyes bashfully when he does.

They’ve learned a lot about each other ever since the revelation in the cafeteria, unlearned each other and learned everything about themselves and their bodies from scratch. Napoleon doesn’t think he’s ever felt this close to anyone, not since his mother died when he’d been a little boy.

Illya is still Peril – sassy, impulsive, with severe anger issues, stubborn, and sometimes not the best team player there is. But he’s also assertive, kind-hearted, a gentle lover, a rough fuck, the best partner there can possible be, both on the pitch and in bed. He’s the keeper of Napoleon’s heart; the same heart he’d locked behind bars for years if not decades, the same heart he’d cut out of his chest only to offer it to the Russian devil in front of him.

Illya smiles, and Napoleon surges in to kiss him.

It’s the last week of the season and they’ve already lost the title to another side maybe not that much better than them. But Napoleon has been called up for the US National Team as everyone had expected, and he wasn’t surprised when Illya had been called up for Russia.

So this is less of a goodbye than a ‘see you in a couple weeks my dear’, but it feels bittersweet anyway. Knowing they will be opponents instead of allies is a tough pill to swallow, but Illya is grinning against Napoleon’s lips.

“You’re just afraid of my home advantage, Cowboy,” he breathes quietly as they pull away.

Napoleon gently flicks his head as he leans back in with a chuckle.

“We shall see. _Do vstrechi v Rossii, lyubov'_.”

 

**Author's Note:**

>   * Sorry if the ending feels rushed!
>   * I don't speak Russian. Not a lick of it. But according to google _Do vstrechi v Rossii, lyubov'_ (До встречи в России, любовь) means 'see you in Russia, love'. Please correct me if I'm wrong
>   * I didn't define the team they play for on purpose. I don't actually have that much knowledge of the Premiere League, as I mostly watch the German league; feel free to place them in your favourite London team if you so please
>   * The USA actually just barely missed qualifications for the 2018 World Cup, but I dared to tweak reality a bit for the sake of this fic
>   * Also, Bayern's captain (who is at the same time Germany's) was injured most of the season leading up to the World Cup, but we'll ignore that too
>   * Speaking of, if any of you were intrigued by those two, you could head over to my [main account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggiewrites) ... I write primarily about them these days.
>   * Feel free to visit me on [tumblr](http://manuelmueller.tumblr.com/) – just a fair warning, I primarily post about German footballers
> 

> 
> Thanks for sticking with me 'til here – please leave kudos and maybe a comment if you liked it!


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